The Difference a Day makes
by peroxidepest17
Summary: Doyle’s waiting for his life to change.


**Title:** The Difference a Day Makes  
**Universe: **Angel  
**Theme/Topic: **Retro fic  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Character/Pairing/s:** Doyle  
**Warnings/Spoilers:** Bad memory on my part. OOC  
**Word Count:** 1,341  
**Su****mmary:** Doyle's waiting for his life to change.  
**Dedication:** silverprism's request on my holiday request meme! God how many years has it been. Do I even still remember stuff. I suppose we shall see.  
**A/N:** Pre-series but I don't remember the details of Doyle's visions so I could be wrong. TO BE FAIR IT'S BEEN A REALLY LONG TIME.  
**Disclaimer:** No harm or infringement intended.

* * *

When his face hits the floor after the first punch gets thrown he also drops his untouched drink in the process; to be completely honest, it is the biggest travesty of the whole thing as far as Doyle is concerned.

He's long ago given up on having any sort of pride.

Though he does take the time to sit up and wipe the blood from his nose before he looks back up at his attacker again, trying to play it cool. "Oh c'mon, Frankie, it was only one small game. What's a little debt between friends, eh?" he asks, in the hopes that Frankie is feeling generous tonight. Or lazy. That would do too.

His creditor looks down at him and cracks his knuckles in what can be taken as a not-very generous (or lazy) way. "First," the loan shark growls, as he looms over the Irishman, "we're not friends, Doyle. It's a general rule of thumb that people like me—winners— don't make friends with losers like you. Second, that _one_ game was three months ago, asshole. You're about seven games and fifty beatings overdue by my count. Third, if the three grand you owe me is only a _little debt_ to you, you should probably just pay up _before_ your face gets rearranged next time."

Doyle supposes that Frankie has a point. "I see your point," he acquiesces, because he is magnanimous like that.

"You understand? I don't think you do, Doyle. Because if you did, you'd know better than to show up at my club without my money with you when I ask for it."

"You see, that's probably where our kinda thinking differs, Frankie. 'Cuz I thought me coming despite my troubles would be a show of good faith. You know, like…"

Frankie doesn't let him finish; he pulls Doyle up by the collar and punches him a few more times in the teeth, to show him exactly what he thinks of Doyle's show of good faith.

When the Irishman hits the ground again, his face lands in the spilled alcohol (and the broken glass) that he dropped earlier, while Frankie shakes his fists out. "End of the week, mixed blood, or I take my three grand back in black market demon organs." Pause. Smile. "And since you're only half, I'm gonna have to take double just to break even."

Doyle gets the point. "You'll have your money," he breathes shakily, and manages to get on his hands and knees. Eventually.

Frankie laughs at how pathetic he is and orders the bartender to bring Doyle another drink. "On me," he tells everyone watching, and walks away the big man.

The worst part, Doyle thinks, is that when the barkeep slides him the free shot, he doesn't think twice before taking it.

He stumbles out of the club a little while later, and is kind of proud of himself when he makes it all the way into the alleyway before collapsing again, against the wall.

He wonders where he's going to find three grand in the next two days.

He could borrow it from Ollie, he supposes, since he and Ollie are square now (after Doyle had borrowed from Jojo to pay Ollie back, and then borrowed from Frankie to bet on the game he was definitely going to win enough to pay Jojo back with, etc., etc., etc.).

The way Doyle sees it, if he borrows from Ollie to pay Frankie back it means he doesn't end up on the black market chopping block. Jojo will beat him up Saturday, when he's late on that payment, and then Ollie will definitely kick the shit out of him next week for not paying him back on time after that, but both of those will be warning ass kickings (like today's was), and not for-real, "I'm gonna kill you" ass-kickings, like he'd get if he didn't find a way to pay Frankie back first.

Complicated and a little dirty maybe, but out here, it's essentially the circle of life for people like him. The circle of borrowing cash so he can spend one more miserable day on this miserable earth.

But like his Ma always used to say, one day can make all the difference. One day can change the world. Change your life.

He's just waiting for his.

Still.

What _it_ is exactly he isn't sure; it could be as something as simple as getting out of the red, or not getting punched in the face, or actually being on time with rent. It could be a girl with legs that go on forever or that one lucky lottery ticket that he'll _finally get _at the 7-11 around the corner.

Or maybe Frankie will drop dead of a heart attack tomorrow. That would be good to.

Whatever it is, whatever it involves—however big or small— Doyle's day will come; he's sure of it.

He knows he just has to wait a little longer—live a little bit longer— and see what tomorrow brings first.

At least that's what he tells himself day in and day out, when he's bloody and swollen like this, slouching around in the back alleys of an LA nightclub with no real purpose, no clear goal.

Nothing to look forward to except the possibility that tomorrow will be different.

That tomorrow, he'll be worth something.

The thought buoys him a little, and he rolls to his feet, supporting himself against the wall so that he can stumble back to the sidewalk. He ignores the disgusted looks he gets from the people in line to get into the club; the derisive comments they make about his smell and the age of his clothes as he passes them falls on mostly deaf ears.

He's used enough to it by now that it doesn't bother him anymore, not a lot anyway.

Because in a city like this, he knows that tomorrow could change everything. Tomorrow could mean a string of bad luck for all those pretty people in front of him, the kind of bad luck that puts them in shoes like his, that takes them out of that glamorous line and into the street with him, beaten and filthy and without a dime to their name.

LA, Doyle knows, is like that.

Life is like that.

One day you're on top of the world and the next day (or the next week, or the next month or the next couple of years) you're not.

No one can know what the future will bring, after all.

All you can do is keep living and see what happens.

"Maybe tomorrow," he thinks some time later, when he gets back to the rat hole apartment he could be evicted from at any moment now.

He doesn't bother to shower or clean up or even take off his shoes as he crawls into a bed that already smells like alcohol and alleyway anyway. "Maybe tomorrow will be my day," he murmurs to himself tiredly, before he collapses on his pillow and closes his eyes, in the hopes that something better than this is in store for him when he opens them again in the morning.

Just like his Ma used to say, every dog has his day.

He falls asleep thinking that maybe tomorrow will be his.

But as it turns out, all tomorrow brings him is the wake up call from hell, in the form of a blinding, pounding headache, a series of flashing lights and deafening sounds and more hurt than Frankie or Ollie or Jojo could dole out to him in one beating combined.

When it's finally over, when his heart is pounding a thousand miles per minute in his chest and he's panting and aching and disbelieving on his bed, all he's left with is the face of a pretty girl he's never seen before in his life, and a pretty name as unfamiliar to him as the face had been.

"Holy shit," he breathes.

He wonders what the hell it's all supposed to mean.

**END**


End file.
